


perhaps the truth depends upon a walk around the lake

by we_the_hollow



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Assault, Character Study, Homelessness, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sexual Assault, because we all know we'd bang homeless zayn, hm, snippets into their au lives, would you call these character studies i don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_the_hollow/pseuds/we_the_hollow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn and Niall are homeless for different reasons. They share the alleyway between a dilapidated bookstore and the sweetshop next door. That's it, that's the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bit like riding a bike pt1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, guys. I wanted to make this like a full blown story but. I like the snippets. And how none of them are in order. And the complete unedited mess that they are. IDK maybe I'm just lazy. Anywhoo this is a work in progress so you might notice some subtle changes every now and then but nothing too major, i'll mostly just be finding different ways of writing and like maybe adding some stuff to the snippets that already exist and whatnot..sooo I guess, in short, come back every day? because you never know, there might be something new. or not. hehe. the development is ongoing!

See, all the logistics are there, they’re right there under your nose, in your line of sight, _right there_ like maybe they always have been; the fatal, lethal, incurable attraction and unfalteringly resolute loyalty and hushed whispers of pure kisses in the middle of the night, all the _I live for you but I could just as easily die for you too_ and _If I’m a bird you’re a bird_ clauses. But – _but they’re all jumbled_ , is the thing, muddled up, broken apart and put together wrong, set out in a different order like a code or a Rubik’s Cube.

That’s the thing about _love_ though, isn’t it?

That’s the _beauty_.

If it really fucking hurts, if it confuses the hell out of you, if it bleeds you dry through the vein in your neck and sucks the life from the marrow of your bones, if it obliterates your soul and hammers away at your head, chips away at the colour in your eyes till all you see is an image of him wearing your favourite hoodie - the dark green one with the hole in the elbow – and not much else, blissed out post-high, post-orgasm, lips swollen and parted, if it’s all somehow fixed and glued together and rearranged right when he just fucking looks at you with those eyes of his, or _godfuckingdamnit_ even just glances in your direction, if that’s all it takes for damage control, then you know, don’t you? 

You know it’s right here.

You know it’s real.

You know it’s true. And that’s all you need, all you’ll ever need, all you’ve ever needed. To just… _know._ And now you do. And now you won’t ever forget it, that knowledge. It’s ingrained and there it’ll stay. Bit like the image of him that’s burned into your memory. Bit like those people in that movie. Bit like riding a bike.


	2. took a car downtown where the lost boys meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there might be two obvious inspirations for this snippet see if you can guess! one is much more obvious than the other..

You steal a car one day.

Just walk right up to the peppermint blue Morris Marina you’ve been eyeing from across the street all day. Peer through the window, scout out the area. Inhale sharply through your nose and scuff your trainers on the pavement, flip the collar of his denim jacket ( _the one with the cut off sleeves_ ) and put your fist through the driver’s window without blinking. Hotwire it and hightail it downtown.

The look on his face when you get there isn’t a nice one. You smile at him anyway, knuckles still bleeding. 

You drive for fifteen minutes or so, the town getting rougher by the minute until you come to the meeting place. You see them, The Lost Boys, they almost run but then they see you, too. Zayn gets out of the car, does the deal.

Everything’s quiet until it’s not.

And then he’s running and The Lost Boys are running and Zayn is diving through the window you didn’t realize he’d left open bashing his ankle on the way in and he’s shouting “Drive! Niall, drive for fuck sake, drive!” and it’s the most he’s said to you all week. _Figures._ But you drive anyway. Hotwire it and hightail it uptown.  Laughing all the way. 

So now you’re just driving, under the limit slightly because you can, because The Lost Boys aren’t stupid enough, aren’t arrogant enough to think they can catch a speeding car. You feel like you’ve done something terrible. Maybe you have. Loving him despite his crimes is a crime in itself. His beauty being the biggest. But wasn’t it _him_ who suggested it? Wasn’t it _him_ who reminded you both that you’re fucking _broke_ this month and can’t afford jackshit?

You’re his Getaway, you’re just as guilty.

You’re trying your damnedest not to say something to him because that would be an admission of failure. You never really talk all that much, the two of you. Don’t feel the need. So saying something now would be like admitting you can’t not say something. Like you just have to say something, anything.  You’re choking down the words, trembling, the feeling resonating from under your skin instead, breathing in and breathing out the letters and they’re escaping your tongue and scattering in the air like dandelion seeds.

You hope he catches them, makes a wish. He does, of course, and it comes true. You look at him and he is already looking at you and you realize _oh okay, yeah._


	3. the foundations for a little less than en entire universe

It’s not like it was ever really a spoken agreement, a signed with blood and the sacrifice of your firstborn oath, this thing that they have;  more the ever so slight, _blink and you’ll miss it_ curve of a pair of thick pink lips, the almost but not quite arrogant tilt of a stubbled chin, and the arching of a thin, dark eyebrow. More the deliberate and slow blinking of _brightbrightbright_ china blue eyes glazed over and rimmed in a rare shade of red, the upheaval of a muscle hardened chest on the inhale and the effort it takes for the downfall, the exhale, in response.

Words it seemed, were insignificant in large capacities. Still are, matter of fact. Just mere supporting roles for something - _something bigger_.

Something _muchmuchmuch bigger_ than either of them could imagine. The foundations for a little less than an entire universe, _thriving_ , full to bursting with life, constellations and galaxies and black holes, planets orbiting the endless expanse of space and muscle between their shoulders.

Suns orbiting the cavity in their chests that are pressed together now, bare and hot and sweat slick under cover of clothes too thick for Summer.

Stars being born and burning and burning out and dying only to be reborn again behind the flecks of silver in china blue eyes. A whole universe where touch was, and remains, the native language of every planet of every solar and lunar system.

Because, as is only human nature as is only _nature_ in the most general sense of the word, with one sense lost to the changing of tides and winds, all others are heightened. And so, with words eradicated, they have learned deep truths and dark secrets through nothing but slow and languid kisses placed on lips, marked on shoulder blades and collarbones, smudged on hipbones in a field beneath the stars, bathed in Summer moonlight and midnight dew. They have learned lessons of sin and well hidden fantasies and dirty desires in the time it took for them to get their hands down the front of each other’s jeans and wrench out a mindblowing orgasm from the pit of their beloved’s stomach in the back alley of a seedy nightclub.

They have learned many things in their banishment of ritualistic things such as words; how to properly convey the feelings that hide at the base of both spines - in that small little space where the skin is stretched a little tighter - however, they have not.


	4. bit like riding a bike pt2

“Bit like riding a bike,” he had said, paused, stopped, _breathed_.

“Really fucking wobbly at first, stupid rickety stabilizers your mum insisted on putting on even though _Mum, I’m eight not five,_ and handlebars with a mind of their own, plenty of crashes and graceless flights into bushes or lampposts, grazed knees and knuckles broken in like _thirty two places Niall, goddamnit!_ But then,” he had said, paused again – always was one for dramatics, this one - as a smile quirked his lips upwards in that way that makes your knees weak and the butterflies in your stomach rabid, he had closed his eyes, too, 

“Well then, there’s the wind in your face, in your hair, wrapping ‘round your entire body and you’re just cruising along at first because d _uh, learner here_ , but then your fear dissipates in place of adrenaline as the slope comes up and forget the butterflies in the cage of your stomach, there’s an entire fucking zoo all trying to get out and you’re just picking up speed as you go down this slope, _fasterfasterfaster_ , faint smell of burning rubber which’ll come to be one of your favourite things about this, and you’re gliding through the air now, the bike just a catalyst sitting between your thighs as you go further into oblivion,”

His eyes shoot open then, almost startling a gasp from you; they look _sososoblue_ and all full of wonder and he blinks all slow, smiles again just the way you like, not too many teeth, a hint of tongue all private and secret and yours before taking a breath, turning his head, and continuing with his eyes fixed on your own,

“And it’s exhilarating and terrifying and suddenly you’re not gliding through the air with your bike between your thighs, because you’re flying. Or maybe you’re falling. But it doesn’t matter and you don’t much care because he bandaged all the knuckles you broke and he’s laced his fingers through your own and he’s right beside you,”

His hand finds yours where it’s resting by your side and he runs his fingers over the bumps of your knuckles, laces your hands together and it’s as if they were never really apart, pale melting into auburn, and it feels like home “So you’re together. So nothing else matters. So your knuckles are bandaged and you have him to thank for it and you don’t care if you’re falling or flying. So this is it.” He had smiled again on the exhale and you had kissed him with a little less force than usual, guided rather than shoved him the three and a half steps it takes for his spine to hit the brick wall, slipped one hand in the front of his jeans and the other round the back of his neck, pulled him closer while moving your fingers just so, elicited a soft groan from which mouth you didn’t care. 

He had kissed back the way he always does; like you’d disappear; like he was sculpting you out of clay, like his tongue on the roof of your mouth was keeping you from floating away, made you his; like his hands in your hair, on your spine, on your elbow and your hips and anywhere he could reach were what anchored you to him.

And in a way, you supposed, he was right. You would become his work of art and he would stand back and admire you.

So you grip him a little tighter for his reassurance or your own and you let him pull you down onto the floor, straddle your stomach, leave purple smudges on your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he could reach.

Because this was it, clichéd as it was, and corny as hell, this was it. This was love.


	5. the universe that hides

It’s the height of Summer. Round about the end of July, you figure. There are more kids hanging around the streets. You don’t see much of them, but you know they’re there. There’s something _changing, changed_ in the air; in a figurative sense and a literal sense. Feels like danger, energy charged and thrumming through the grit beneath your feet. Smells like teenage boys in vests with their hats on backwards and those big dogs they parade around to keep their social status secure. Smells like pot and alcohol and bad intentions. Moreso than usual, anyway.

It’s not the worst time of year to be without a home, really. It’s not the best either. Then again, when is a good time to be homeless?

It’s certainly not when you’re scouting a place to sleep tonight and you see them, the gang. You know these boys. They’re from downtown. Pretentious arrogant fuckers with too much money. The blood stains their wallets, their hands. Call themselves The Lost Boys and _fuck_ you wish they were.

They’re like the Socs to your Greasers and you hate everything about them but they’re the only guys you score from and you can tolerate them well enough when you have to.

See, you’re a bit of a dick too. And there’s some unwritten rule which says you all have to at least tolerate each other. It’s a stupid rule, you think.

The ringleader smiles when he spots you, winks too, the prick.  You think maybe they’re gonna start shit and there’s three of them so you’d be horribly outnumbered, but as it turns out, you pass each other with tilted chins and dangerous smirks and that is that. You turn around and walk backwards, your eyes on them as you move away. But they turn a corner and then they’re gone.

You turn a corner now, too. You find yourself in an alleyway between the bookstore you used to frequent and the sweetshop next door. Sitting half in the shadows, back against one wall, feet just touching the other, is a boy. There’s a joint hanging loose from his lips when he turns to you with half lidded eyes.

You tilt your chin in acknowledgement, feel your lips curve up into something you hope can pass as a smile, arch an eyebrow in question. He responds with a slow, _blueblueblue_ blink and an exhale.  You get the niggling feeling that maybe you should say something but you decide against it. He looks so pretty like this; eyes rimmed in a rare shade of red, limbs looking to be sinking into the ground, sated half smile. You wouldn’t want to spoil it.

You have visions of a universe hiding behind the flecks of silver in his eyes. Suns and planets and stars and dopey smiles. You pray to whatever god there is that you’ll find that universe someday.


	6. your knees hit the asphalt and your hands are fists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please remember I have no idea what i'm doing with these i'm literally just postin them as they're written

Harry his name is. His hair is wild and curly, held from his face by a white fedora and his blue shirt is obnoxiously unbuttoned all the way down to reveal his prison tattoos and fucking rock solid abs. The sleeves are turned right up as if you needed reminding that he could floor you with the flick of a fucking wrist.

(There’s the wailing of sirens somewhere in the distance and you pray, though it’s half-hearted. The cops have a reputation for being late.)

Then there’s his smaller, broader counterpart, Louis.  Louis’ hair swoops and the collar of his teeshirt dips and his jeans are rolled to his ankles and his motherfucking eyes twinkle with danger. In another life you’d bang him so hard. But this is this life and if you so much as laid a finger on a strand of his hair Harry’d put your face through the concrete no qualms. 

Liam would watch in fascination.

(The timing for these thoughts is neither warranted nor convenient but you are a teenage boy, so. Your cock twitches and you feel the bile rise to your throat as your fingers run over the straps of Harry’s backpack. Course it’s empty now, the contents shifted, your cash tucked in a ripped Asda bag in the bottom of the garbage bin between the bookstore and the sweetshop. There’s a moment where a gust of wind picks up a few coloured pieces of paper, the Monopoly money, and the bile nearly spills over your teeth.)

Last, is Liam. Liam who looks as though he really is a lost boy. He’s all twitchy limbs and downcast eyes and shy smiles. He doesn’t belong with these two but maybe that’s just how he wants to come across. Maybe Harry’s not the most dangerous, though he looks the part, plays it well enough. Maybe it’s Liam.

(It is.)

There’s a series of gunshots and the police sirens are louder now and everything must be in slow motion because Harry is clutching his stomach. Harry is falling to the floor. Harry is on his knees, his gun knocked from his hands. Harry is fucking dead and Liam’s hands are shaking and Louis is shouting something ( _Run, fucking run Li! Let’s go, let’s go! Fucking move! Go!_ ) and Liam doesn’t move or let go of the gun and you are falling to the floor now, like Harry, Niall’s weight dragging you down.

Your knees hit the asphalt and Niall’s knees hit the asphalt and your hands are fists in the front of his teeshirt. “Niall?" He gasps and his hands fly to clutch your own. "Niall?" you say, and you are sick to your stomach when you glance down. "St-stay with me, c’mon. You’ll be okay. I’m right here, look at me, okay? I’m not – I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here and you are gonna be okay. You have to be,”

(The sirens are louder and then they stop and there’s the sound of tires screeching on the road and shouts and cries and _I said drop your damn weapon, drop it_ , and two more gunshots.)

“Niall,” in your peripheral, Liam is walking toward you, the red colouring his teeshirt. He is shouting your name. Niall is blinking but they’re getting further apart, more of his iris disappearing with each blink.

(there is another gunshot and you can see it pierces Liam’s shoulder but he doesn’t drop his own gun)

He walks closer. Another gunshot. Closer still and he shouts your name again. Another. Closer. Yet another. Closer and then he’s falling to the ground with the next gunshot, his arm outstretched towards where you kneel. The _I’m sorry_ that bubbles from his throat is the last thing you hear.

It's not enough but it has to be.


	7. your knees hit the asphalt and his hands are fists

You think his name might be Harry. You don't know much, just that he's obnoxious and arrogant and an attractive cunt who can pull off a fedora. He's fit in every sense of the word. And if your pants get a little tighter when he glances at you with those _greenforfuckssakegreenwhygreen_ eyes, well, nobody has to know. You feel Zayn's fingers grasp your wrist a little tighter, bruising, as if he feels a need to protect you though he doesn't owe you shit. It makes you grin.

(Somewhere, there are sirens. You wonder absently why there would be sirens and that's when you find your very first train of thought, the one that got derailed by a pair of eyes you wouldn’t mind drowning in; _ohshittheyhavegunszaynwhydoyouhaveagunwhatthefuckisgoingonohmygodnonono._ )

Harry (is it Harry? It should be, if it isn't) is flanked by two other boys; a small, slight thing with broad shoulders and floppy hair and a dangerous twinkle in his eyes and another, taller, broader boy with cropped short hair who reminds you vaguely of a puppy that has been repeatedly kicked. He's quite fit too.

(The timing for these thoughts is neither warranted nor convenient but you are a teenage boy, so. Your cock twitches and you feel the bile rise to your throat as you note the gun tucked into Zayn's arse pocket. You hope the barrel is empty, you hope it's just for show. But why would it be for show? Zayn's not _stupid_ , he's handled these boys before. The two of you've got a black eye, broken bone before now. The bile nearly spills over your teeth.)

Gunshots go off everywhere; you lose count after four. And now there are police sirens and now Harry is falling to the floor clutching his stomach and falling to the floor. Harry is lying in a steadily growing pool of red and somebody is shouting and now you are falling too, Zayn’s hands fisted in the front of your shirt.

The asphalt bites at your knees when they smash into it, grit and dirt pressing against skin, against bone. Zayn is saying something you can’t quite make out, it’s like he’s shouting from a mile away and you think, for the briefest of seconds, that he might be. Something about staying with him. You hadn’t planned on leaving so you wonder what the fuck he’s on about. Where else would you go? And the gravel is biting your knees and Zayn is still shouting and your stomach is hot. Oh. _Oh_. And the pain registers then.

(The sirens are louder and then they stop and there’s the sound of tires screeching on the road and shouts and cries and _I said drop your damn weapon, drop it,_ and two more gunshots.)

“Niall,” Zayn says and he sounds far away, still. But he’s right here. You can feel his knuckles digging into your chest, his thighs pressed to your own where he’s holding you up, your bodies seamless until they rip apart at the hips, his eyes locked on your own. Someone is walking toward you and Zayn is looking at him. He is shouting Zayn’s name. Zayn is getting further away every time you blink.

There is another gunshot. A hand appears by your knee, a hand covered in blood.

When you inhale next, you feel your own blood rush into your lungs. You hear Zayn say your name like a plea for innocence, loud and wild and pounding in your ears. It's not enough but it has to be. And then the world is tugged from beneath your knees and everything disappears.


	8. locked in time, indestructible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember how I said these aren't in order (except for maybe chapter six and seven which aren't necessarily in order, just from different viewpoints so I guess they're sorta like companion pieces in themselves? idek guizzzzeeee)? well. here. have this piece. before or after the events of whatever chapter you see fit to place it. it seems i like to destroy my own soul because this is possibly one of the angsty-est oneshots/snippets i've ever written. it starts off sorta fluffly but then BAM. (also aware of my overuse of the word "later" i just reread this and i start FIVE consecutive paragraphs with that word? whaddup wid dat. i feel it fits in with the style though and this is mine so stop side-eying me for my choice of paragraph starter. bitches.) ...also a possible trigger warning..i don't know whether there is enough detail for this to need a warning but I think it's also pretty obvious what happens here so i'm gunna put up a warning anyway because you can never be too careful.  
> (TW for rape/sexual assault)

You've got this thing. A hero complex.

You think he saves you, could save anyone if he put his mind to it. Shoulders the world because he's never known anything else, sprung from the womb clad in tights and a cape. You only just manage to tame the curve of your lips as the image springs to mind; your personal Superman. So you think he saves you. And he certainly has the capacity to. Hard, wiry limbs, hollow boned like a bird and just as light, rugged jaw cut from marble.

It’s like, with his slender fingers wrapped once, almost twice around your wrist, head cocked and eyes fixed on your own, you’re invincible.

Nothing can harm you or will _ever_ harm you, if you can just stay in this moment, locked in time with him, indestructible, golden sands of the hourglass frozen in their fall. The feeling, the knowledge, the understanding is there in every touch. In stark contrast from the words neither you or him can bring yourselves to say.

From chance grazes of skin ( _the brush of an arm when he settles in close, when he places a kiss to your shoulder, when his fingers skate over your thigh in curiosity_ ) to meaningful, deliberate contact ( _fingers pressing bruises into hipbones, shoulders, yanking at your hair, grit and shards of glass biting at your knees through the denim of your jeans_ ). You are pressed together now, each point of contact an anchor and a small reminder. Shoulder, ( _I’m here,_ ) elbow, ( _and you are here too._ ) wrist, ( _This is real, this is happening_.) thigh and knee and ankle. ( _I love you_.)

Later, there will be kisses soaked in whiskey and orange and sweat, pressed fervently to your lips, swept with practiced ease across your collarbone and smudged with determined purpose on the patch of flesh between your ribs and hips, marring the skin in lavender. 

Later, there will be guttural moans ripped from the pit of his stomach and you will chastise him, clench in warning that you could be heard, but it only makes him louder. He almost slips, almost says your name, but his string of curses peter down into smaller moans, little gasps. He shudders then. Once, twice, three times and you collapse to the floor, exhausted, your own release momentarily forgotten.

Later there will be a clinking of glass bottles and shuffling of feet as someone intrudes on your alleyway and only a single tear will fall when you see your boy, your hero knocked to the floor, mouth dripping with blood. You will shout and curse and swing your fists, to rain down on this stranger, this obnoxious, arrogant, monster of a man. He will merely laugh, and pin you to the nearest wall, alcohol soaked breath hot on your neck.

Later, you struggle but it will be no use; he’s twice your size, and you’re already devoid of most of your clothing. And only a single tear will fall when, with the only warning being the clatter of a belt as it drops to the floor, the intruder is taking his place inside you, filling you up, wrenching out groans and whines of pain, filling the air with his sickening laughter, marking you as his territory and walking away with one last sly chuckle.

Later you will collapse to the floor beside your hero, and rub away the blood from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. You will wrap his arm around your body as your curl into him, pretending you are safe and he is awake and holding you and comforting you. You will pray for him to wake. You will pray that your dignity is the only thing that the intruder took. You will pray for the soft rise and fall of your hero’s chest and the words he can say only with his eyes.

But for now, for now you are pressed together, locked in time, golden sands of the hourglass frozen in their fall, each point of contact an anchor and a small reminder. Shoulder, ( _I’m here,_ ) elbow, ( _and you are here too._ ) wrist, ( _This isn’t real, this isn’t happening_.) thigh and knee and ankle. ( _I love you_.)


	9. the blueprints of your whole life

See, the thing about cities is this; they’re bold and bright and brilliant.

But the stars don’t exist.

So one night, one warm, breezeless night when the clouds are few and far between and the moon is shining full, you take your boy and your stolen car and your little plastic bag that fits neatly in the front pocket of his chequered shirt, and you drive to the countryside. Put your foot to the floor and speed through the city, weaving in and out of the dregs of late night traffic whooping and laughing, your heart in your mouth and your stomach in your throat but laughing all the same. Put your foot to the floor and speed through the city, make it to the countryside in just under forty three minutes. Skyscrapers and asphalt and book shops giving way to grassy hills, mountains, dirt and trees.  

And you’re driving with the roof down, cool air whipping through your hair, winding down the narrow country roads with your boy beside you and _oh, so this is home._

He’s restless, hasn’t kept still since the asphalt turned to dirt. Hasn’t stopped fidgeting. Has sat in every seat in the car, even at one point, in your lap, back against your door and legs stretching over to the passenger side. Fucking insane, this boy of yours. 

He’s in the seat behind you now, head lolling backwards with his throat bared, feet propped on the headrest of the passenger side. You are sneaking glances at him in the rearview mirror because how could you not? It doesn’t occur to you to pay much attention to the road. There’s a joint between his lips and you wish you could see his face, but you’ve had to settle for the solid rise and fall of his chest; sinking in deep on the inhale - ribs jutting up and out - and rising up, tightened and compact on the exhale, the extra strain it puts on his teeshirt making your jeans tighten painfully.

You wish you could see his face but you’ve had to settle for the plumes of purple smoke that shroud him, hide him from you for all of a second before drifting upwards and dancing away behind him, led away by the wind. The long line of his throat and diamond cut of his scruffy jaw.

You wish you could see his face but you’ve had to settle for the knowledge that, when you eventually stop, you’ll get to see so much more.

When you reach the hill you’d been trying to find, you give it a once-over, pray the car’ll make it up. It’s not that steep. The Marina protests; squawks and rattles and whines, but eventually you get there, put her in park just shy of a willow tree that is radically out of place. He clambers out (over the seat, rather than through the middle or out the door, and then over the windshield) before you’ve even stopped, sits on the hood, legs dangling over the front.

You come to an abrupt halt, jolting him and he slips but doesn’t fall. He bares his teeth in mock warning and you laugh as he wiggles to get comfortable again.

He’s lighting the joint he made you an hour ago before you join him, being sure you’re as close as you can get. _(Shoulder, (I’m here,) elbow, (and you are here too.) wrist, (This is real, this is happening.) thigh and knee and ankle. (I love you.)_ You need to know he’s real. You need to know you’re not a fucking psycho. He hands you the lit joint and you lie back against the windshield in unison.    

It’s not too long before the blood in your veins is singing, symphonies and arias and your heart thrums against your ribs with fire and electricity, like beating fists on iron bars, imprisoned and wild with rage. It’s nice. The stars are out, mapping tragedies and painting destinies and weaving stories and you think you could find your own if only you looked hard enough. But you don’t dare. You don’t want to know what’s in store, because you’re here with him _now_. And he loves you _now_. And somewhere along the way, the _here and now_ of things became pretty damned important.

Somewhere along the way, _now_ and _your boy_ , became the only things that mattered.  

In the city you can pretend the stars don’t exist. But out here, where the sky is clear and the stars are visible for all to see, basking in abundance and glory, you can see the blueprints of your whole life. You’re still not sure whether fear or excitement is winning but you’re trying to focus on the present, so, for a while, you close your eyes. You lie on your car bonnet with the cool air around you, silence thick and heavy, imagining you are in the city and you cannot see the stars. 


	10. brothers in arms

You think he might’ve hung the moon; wrapped a rope around it and secured a knot. Climbed a ladder made of stars and dandelion seeds. Nailed it to the sky. You think he might’ve painted the sunset; sat atop a hill with his easel and stool and mason jars hall full of homemade acrylics. Swept pinks and oranges and golds across a cornflower blue canvas. Sponged in pearly white clouds. 

You think he might’ve drawn out the morning; sweeps and strokes and smudges in dusty blue and lavender, the sun a radiant ochre globe in the centre of the page.

You think he might’ve made this world for the two of you.

A place to call your own, a place where he could love you and you him. A place where the only thing that bleeds is the yellow of the sunset into the blue of the sky. A place where the blood on your teeshirt and the blood on his knuckles and the _bloodbloodeverywhereblood_ is just a metaphor for all the colours that stain the sky, your naked chest a prism reflecting light on a canvas. A place away from here where the blood is always metaphorical, a better place.

 _Here is the place where I love you (_ The story of the warrior and the soul she couldn’t save, the story of the work of art that became the artist.)

It’s spoken in the grip he has on you now, thighs pressed together and fists in your teeshirt your bodies ripped apart at the hips but you’re still one. Still holding things together, though barely, the stitching coming undone. But he’s here and he’s a solid presence and he’s holding you and you will be together always. You know this, you always have. You think you’ve been here before and you need to be sure his answer is still the same. “I - ”

“Me too,” is all he says, because he is yours and he knows and captures your lips in his, sobs a little into your mouth.

The ripped denim on your wrists is becoming uncomfortable. You allow a thought for the fallen, for your brothers in arms who have died for the very same cause. You allow a thought. In moments they will be welcoming you.

The blue and red lights on the police car ( _or is it an ambulance this time?_ ) give way to bright white, to blinding darkness and his voice echoes in your head, faraway though you know he’s here.  You hear their voices, overpowering your boys, like the chimes of bells in a summer breeze.

You smile.

And you can’t bring yourself to feel mad at him for not having said anything sooner as he lies you down, haven’t really been mad at him for a long time now you think about it. So you smile and something tells you he smiles too and you feel your brothers arms embrace you, lift you gently from those of your loved one.   


	11. a perspective on killing things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve used a massive metaphor (as well as borrowed my favourite one from The Fault In Our Stars) here and I’m super proud of it. See if you can find it. I’ll give you a clue. In earlier chapters, Niall thinks Zayn hung the moon, right?

It’s all about perspective, the way you look at things. The sky is blue, the grass is green, his eyes are hazel. But look closer.

The sky is blue; a deep, vast, endless expanse of _blueblueblue_ light scattered through atoms of nitrogen and oxygen, untamed and massively unexplored. The grass is green; each blade greener than the one next to it, growing up and up and up around your ankles, thriving with life and swaying in late July breezes, roots underground tangling and weaving. His eyes are hazel; they are hazel but you think they could be gold. A rich, all consuming, all encompassing gold, hard enough to pierce right through the soft spot in the dip between your collarbone and soft enough to let you know you are home.

So you want to admit defeat, want to hop on a train and _go home_ , hug your brother and kiss your mother, just stay and stick it out. You want to wrap your arms around him and forget you ever let go, kiss your mother like it’s the first time in five years. It will be. You want to give up, go back to the way things were.

But look closer.

Admitting defeat is the biggest admission of failure. You’ve got brighter eyes and a louder voice now, you know better, you know _home_ is not a place, certainly isn’t Ireland. It’s a feeling, it’s three words like a tornado in your head, like Pandora’s Box unleashed on your insides, it’s a person.

Home is Zayn, home is here in his arms. It’s the space where his neck meets his shoulder, it’s the gaps in his ribs wide enough to fit your fingers between. It’s his hands finding purchase, steadying himself on your hips and your shoulder blades and your thighs, and because you are a teenage boy with needs goddamnit, home is those same hands on your cock, inside you, his lips on your own to silence you.

Zayn is home and you have no intention of leaving.

You scream and you shout and you throw punches, you fight like dogs. You hate him more than you love him and he’s responsible for more than one bloody mouth, five bruised knuckles. So you hate him more than you love him but at least you still love him. So you look closer. Screaming is just noise. Vibrations and atoms and frequencies of unwanted sound bouncing around in the air. Shouting is just words. Nouns and verbs and adjectives strung together into sentences and paraphrases to make something ugly. Punches are like sticky notes on a refrigerator. Reminders. _I’m here. You are here too. This is real, this is happening._ You know it’s true. And that’s all you need, all you’ll ever need, all you’ve ever needed.

So you fight like dogs and you hate him more than you love him but when you love him you’d die for him. Because he is your sun and your stars and moon. He is the sky and the air in your lungs and the ground beneath your feet. So again, you look closer. He is your _everything,_ you would _die_ for him.

You put the killing thing between your teeth (the killing thing being _him_ , of course) but you do not give it the power to kill you. You don’t need to look closer to know it kills you anyway. Finds the chink in your armour, the poor weld, the place where the seam is coming apart, and crawls beneath your skin like a thief in the night. Steals away the air from your lungs and the blood for your veins. So it’s not really a metaphor, is it, Augustus Waters. It never will be. You put the killing thing between your teeth and it kills you.


	12. he dies in them all (just close your eyes and think of something nice)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> much needed opportunity to create some fluff! wouldn't you say hm?

Her voice has haunted you, still haunts you even now, even as the pain, like a flower, blooms slow but certain in your lungs, in your heart, in your bones. It is a dull, glowing ache that you’ve conscious of since you rounded that corner God only knows how many days, weeks, months ago. She’s been there since the first day, since before the first day, her words something of a comfort or maybe a prayer. _Just close your eyes and think of something nice._

You try, you do. Focus, clear your mind, _breathe._ Hold in your breath like it’s a secret, let it out slow, another prayer. And you try your hardest, for her. You let them overtake you, the flashes and the bursts and it’s like opening the floodgates, setting off every firework you ever bought all at once, sparks and then flames and then a bonfire. And it all assaults your head.

The scenes where he’s smiling, where he’s laughing, your favourite scenes, well. They’re scratched through and tossed aside, thrown to the floor in a ball of paper, bouncing off the side of the overflowing bin. _No, no. Don’t make it too happy. Make it hurt. Make it real. He’s smiled enough, he needs pain now. That’s what happens, isn’t it? Nobody gets to smile as much as they deserve because that’s not real._  

They’re all rewritten. And now blood. So much of it, you’ve never been much of a wordsmith, but you think _bloodbloodeverywhereblood_ is a little excessive. Surely this is somebody else’s story but no, you’re still the star, and he’s still your supporting actor and you look in disgust at all the blood he will bleed and all the blood you will bleed and you wonder how much it’s going to cost, all this blood. Because it’s still just a script, isn’t it? At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Nothing is every this perfect and in the same breath tragic. Not since those two teenagers who’s fate was decided when the stars crossed and their families fought.   

So you try to smile. But the audience gasps and the curtain falls and no, it’s not a script, and the audience is you and this is real. Pain is the only way to end this. The sun will not rise for him. It will rise for you, but you won’t see it because you will drown in his unseeing eyes.

You go over it again and again and once more in disbelief. But you can’t seem to find any trace of the original version. In every rewrite, it’ the same plot. Somewhere, in an unnamed town in an unnamed city, two homeless boys find each other and fall in love. One dies. It’s very direct, and to the point. No detail, barely any dialogue, you wonder how you’ll even play the part.

But it’s been done. It’s already happened. It’s there in bold, Times New Roman font. One dies. One survives. The end. Every version the same as the last the original nowhere to be found and here is the repeated image of the lover (not lovers) destroyed. One died, but he got off easy. The other was destroyed.

Every version.

Every retelling.

He dies in them all.

Understandably, you don’t like these versions. _(Just close your eyes and think of something nice.)_ So you write your own. And he lives and there is no blood and there are plenty of smiles and the curtain never falls because you are here for always. You are infinite and your story will never-


End file.
